


No Rest for the Wicked

by tonyendo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Best Friends, Body Horror, Chronic Pain, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Smut, Nightmares, Reconditioning, Self-Hatred, Unethical Experimentation, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonyendo/pseuds/tonyendo
Summary: 31 days of whatever dark prompts I want. Tags to be updated.October 2020
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Funeral

Moira O’Deorain despised funerals.

They were melancholy in all of the wrong ways. It felt a touch torture-porn, witnessing an endless faucet of tears and snot from other attendees, as they huddled around the closed casket. Watching them mourn a man they hadn’t known in many, many years.

His casket had been flown halfway across the world with his husband’s. He was to be laid to rest alongside the others in his family, given a _proper_ catholic funeral, while the other was sent back to whatever cornfield he hailed from.

Though, she supposed she was no better than his so-called family. Her own sick, morbid curiosity had edged her on to catch her own flight once she had heard of the accident. 

Well, _accident_ was putting it _lightly._ Attack felt more proper, but when wasn’t the organization under fire?

When had they not deserved it?

None of the others had stayed— Blackwatch had been under scrutiny, and the weak willed had scattered immediately following the Venice incident. Only those who held steadfast trust in their Commander remained.

How easy it was for Jesse to turn and run. Though, she supposed she couldn’t blame him, loathe to admit. As soon as Overwatch was made aware of her under the table involvement, she’d fled Italy like a bat out of hell, too exposed in the light that was finally turned on their private underworld. She’d returned to Dublin, abandoning her belongings in her haste, lest she lose her head start.

No one had dared to follow. Nobody had _cared_ to follow.

Moira sighed as the service finally moved along. The casket had been lowered, the mourning onlookers had returned to their vehicles and left him behind. She took the opportunity to abandon the company of a buried _Maria Lopez_ to stand over the fresh opening in the ground.

She dug in her blazer for her cigarettes, flicking the carton open. One was pulled at random along with her lighter. Relying on her muscle memory, she flicked the flint wheel and began to nurse one one of her many vices.

Leaves crunched underfoot as someone neared. Moira flicked the ashes into the hole in the ground, mindful of her company. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“What happens now?” The voice was rough. Unnaturally so.

The hood of his jacket was drawn up, obscuring his face. Even so, she could see hazy coils of vapor— of _him,—_ whisked away by the coastal breeze. They were both staring at the empty casket.

She’d followed what remained of him. She would continue to follow his ghost, as long as he was her experiment. As long as he continued to thrive unlike the rest. As long as he continued to give her _results._

She raised the cigarette to her lips once more. The tip blazed as she inhaled, the embers glaring and the smoke coiling within her lungs, the chilled burn of menthol welcome.

He looked up to her. _Everyone_ looked up to her, and she felt a touch of pride at the reminder. No one would look down upon her or her work again, and her new benefactors would assure as much.

Moira offered him a cigarette to which he accepted. _Not like it can kill me_ , she could hear him seething, even if it was unspoken.

“If you’re finished here, we should be returning. Your condition will not remain stable for long.”

He scoffed, lighting his cigarette off of hers. “So what are you proposing, O’Deorain?”

“The same as we always do.” She looked down, a dry smile forming. “We get back to work, Commander.”


	2. Mirror, Mirror

“Careful, O’Deorain,” she had whispered against her lips. “Rabbits _bite_.”

True to her word, she did. The recipient of the marks had uttered no qualms about the onslaught— only sounds of satisfaction.

As Moira slept, Clover pried herself from her hold. She knew she couldn't do the same. Sleep was a rare and prized reprieve. No matter how long she laid with her eyes closed, she found it increasingly difficult to succumb to her exhaustion.

She could only pretend they were laying together in another country, in another  _ time _ , for so long before scolding herself over such a naïve yearning.

The way the moonlight illuminated Moira’s face revealed a peaceful expression Clover hadn’t seen in half a decade. She had grown accustomed to her put off and irate demeanor during the day. Between Talon and Oasis, she was running threadbear trying to keep a foothold in both major powers. Without one, the other would burn to ash.

Her irritable expression, of course, often extended to  _ her  _ as well. Clover hadn’t made things easy since they’d ‘reconnected’. At every turn, she had readied a new insult, with gnashing teeth and venom on her tongue.

Slowly, her fingers traced the memory of marks along her own skin. Moira  _ could _ and  _ would _ bite back, she’d always known as much. They looked like a matching pair. Even from where the blanket was wrapped around Moira’s shoulders, she could see darkening spots on pale, freckled skin.

Clover stole away to the bathroom, no longer interested in watching Moira sleep.

Her reflection was a woman she no longer recognized. No longer twenty-something and blind to the world, her age was  _ showing _ . Deep-seated bags beneath her eyes gave way to restless nights bridled with insomnia. Gray streaks framed her face. The corners of her eyes creased with the beginnings of laugh lines from days long forgotten.

There wasn’t much to joke about those days. Nothing that wasn’t a cruel irony, anyway.

The familiar weight of abhorrence, ugly and  _ heavy _ , settled upon her soul. She’d found an  _ in _ with the minister, with one of the leaders of Talon. Like a locust in the garden, she’d crawled beneath her rib cage and settled beneath her heart.

How easy access would be, should she choose to poison her roses. Yet, every time she’d tried, she had split open old wounds on the accompanying thorns. She had tangled herself in the thicket of pining she’d expertly dodged for years. A necessity, for if she hadn’t swallowed down her sentiments, they would have consumed her long ago.

Telling herself as much had eased the pain, even if it wasn’t entirely true.

Clover glared at her reflection. Once hazel, she searched her now-purple eyes. A reminder as to why she was doing this. Why she was subjecting herself to igniting a blazing inferno, knowing she’d only get burned in the process.

She was going to tear Moira’s grounding from beneath her feet. Then, she was going to take everything she held close and bleed her dry.

Only then would she feel a fraction of the pain she had caused.


	3. Chokehold

“How do you feel today, Lacroix?”

Yellow irises were unwavering as they tracked her movement through the room. The geneticist came to stand over her, a small tilt to her head as she studied her. Her eyes were cold, studying her as though she were nothing more than a microbe.

“I asked you a question.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not speak.

Moira sighed. “Are you ready to come out of your restraints now? Can you behave yourself?”

Her eyes dipped to the side. She couldn’t  _ see  _ as much as she could  _ feel  _ the leather biting into her wrists. “Yes.”

Slender fingers worked deftly, undoing the bindings. “Good,” she purred. “Keep up the progress, and perhaps you’ll be granted supervised—”

Her words were cut off as soon as her hands were free. Amélie had shot up, throwing her arm around the doctor’s throat. Moira clawed wildly at her arm, desperate for her to relent. The more she struggled, the harder she squeezed.

The door was thrown open, the slam echoing off the plain walls. It took two guards to pry her off of Moira.

The doctor backed away to the other side of the room, coughing as she touched her throat.

Once her breathing had (for the most part) evened again, she glared at her test subject. “Take her down for a round of cryotherapy. It’ll do her good.”

Something flickered across Amélie’s expression. The corner of her eye twitched, as did the edge of her lip.

_ Fear. _

“Don’t be scared,” Moira soothed as she was walked towards the door. She brushed a strand of navy hair behind her ear. “You won’t be, before long. I’ll make sure of it.”


	4. Falling Apart

She tried to remain quiet, to bury her feelings despite the agonizing pain wracking her body. Her nails bit into her skin, breaking the surface, unnoticeable compared to the nerve damage.

Since her experiment had gone awry six years ago, since her pride had gotten the best of her, deep set pain traveled up and down the limb. It would start at her fingertips and creep up and up. The agony came in _waves._

Some days were better than others. Bearable. Others… well, she topped off her glass with more Glenlivet than healthy.

“Are you alright?”

The lingering touch of her partner jarred her from her thoughts. “I’m fine,” she breathed, releasing her arm. Warm fingers traveled over the limb, and she couldn’t feel more than dulled pressure. “Just…”

“It hurts?” Clover questioned. Her voice was laden with sleep.

Moira sighed, her cold fingers meeting the warmth of Clover’s. She never commented on the state of the limb, other than asking pointed questions out of concern. “It does.”

“‘m sorry,” she mumbled into the pillow. She hadn’t even opened her eyes.

Squeezing her hand, Moira peeled her fingers away. “Go back to bed. Sorry to wake you.”

She didn't receive a response. Naturally, she’d already returned to sleep. It was likely she wouldn’t remember the short conversation come morning.

Sitting over the kitchen table, a glass of more whiskey than necessary in front of her, Moira studied the necrotic limb. It was a bad night, the pain feeling deep in the bone.

At times she wished she had the strength to saw the damn thing off. What then? Would she merely feel ghost pains from the amputation? Would she replace it with a cybernetic? That would ruin all of her work. It would be for nothing.

She smashed back her drink in record time.

The glass slipped from her fingers and she _swore_ as it fell to the table, cracking. The whiskey went everywhere. She glared at her hand, watching as it began to reform on its own.

The pain would pass, it always did. And then it would come back, worse than before, and she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

How long until it wasn't just her hand she couldn’t control? How long did she have until her body began to crumble on it’s own as well?

How long did she have until she couldn’t put herself back together again?


	5. Nightmares

She shot up, the dark of her room greeting her.

The moon was obscured by clouds, leaving her in pitch black. She attempted to steady her breath, fingers slipping against her silken sheets. They were damp and cold, and she was as well, from the sweat she’d broken out into. 

It had been many years since she’d had such a prominent nightmare. Typically, they’d stick with her for no more than a few moments after waking. However, this one didn’t stop once her eyes were open.

Moirs dug her palms into her eyes, hissing at the pressure. The images continued to wind their way through her thoughts as she laid back. 

She could still see them, the way her purple eyes scrutinized every part of her. She could still hear the venomous words dripping from her masked lips as she hovered, nearly obscured by the halogen lights. Try as she might, her hands and ankles had been bound, and she had become nothing more than a subject to her own experiments gone awry. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and the false memory. Even in her psyche, she had felt the agony of her body ripping apart and stitching itself back together at the most fundamental of levels.

She threw a hand out, finding nothing but empty bedding.  _ Always empty _ . No one spent time with her— Olivia was tangled up in Amélie and her cold, unwavering indifference. Gabriel hadn’t spoken more than six words to her in months. And  _ Clover— _

Her eyes opened, narrowing at the ceiling. Well, this new Clover only gave her nightmares.


	6. You Are Not A Quitter

When she thought the initial spinal tap had been the worst pain she’d ever experience in her life, she had been sorely mistaken.

It was one thing, having fluid drawn  _ out  _ of you. It was an entirely other thing to have it forced  _ in _ .

Clover grit her teeth, squeezing her fingers tight in their binds. “Do it, Ember.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. He was young, and anxious, just as she’d been. “A-Are you sure, Dr. Haugen—?”

“ _ Do it! _ ”

The local anesthetic did nothing to prepare her for what was to come. It didn’t come immediately. No, there were several long, tense moments after he’d emptied the contents into her before the horror set in.

The serum was hot and cold simultaneously, two sides of the same agonizing coin ripping straight through her body. Her screams echoed off the walls, her body jerking and attempting to twist against the restraints she’d insisted upon. Her shrew lab assistant looked on, terrified, still wielding the syringe. Only faint traces of purple remained in the chamber.

Tears flowed down her cheeks, her screams giving away to muted sobs as she tried to fight the torment.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

_ You are not a quitter, Clover Haugen,  _ she mouthed, over and over.


	7. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW drug use, implied body horror

The year after the Venice Incident was a blur. The second, after the headquarters were leveled, was _worse_.

Without a proper lab to work in, and without the possibility of employment after dragging her own name through the mud with a rushed and overly ambitious paper the world wasn’t ready for, Moira had nearly gone stir crazy.

Anything to quell the boredom, she’d found. She’d stirred up her own brand of chaos to drive back the melancholia, mostly with a concoction of drinking and drugs she hadn’t seen since _college_. Each day of the week was a different club, the nights too short and the days painfully long. She’d end up with some random ditz on her arm that she held no shred of affection for. _An outlet,_ she thought of them as nothing more than an accessory to her highs.

It felt good, being needed again, even if for a few minutes by a stranger.

It was a bad night if she could remember what she had funneled into herself. It was a good one if she could forget. Only when the xanax, cocaine and whiskey blurred together did she feel numb enough that nothing mattered anymore.

Fuck Overwatch. Fuck Blackwatch. _Fuck it all._

That’s how she ended up in the back of her town car, high off of enough cocaine to stop her heart and drunk off enough liquor to poison her. Fortunately, (or perhaps _unfortunately_ if she thought about it too long) her experimentations had altered her metabolism beyond what could be considered _human_. 

She was three fingers deep into some plastered brunette who couldn’t keep her eyes to herself. Moira’s accent kept catching on her slurred words as she praised her, as she told her how _good_ she was, as she imagined for a moment that she was _her._ That her brown hair was a lighter shade, that her features weren’t so mousey but instead softened and _adorable—_

Moira damn near died of a coke-induced heart attack when someone began hammering on her window. 

She withdrew her fingers, hastily wiping them on her companion’s clothing. She didn’t give her protests a second thought as she fumbled once, twice, trying to get the window to roll down.

She had to squint, her blown pupils not agreeing with the streetlight behind the figure. Her scarred hand was thrown up to try and see them clearly. The sight she was met with sent her fling scrambling out of the car, terrified.

“Gabriel?”

The man leaned against the window. “Your holy fuckin’ spirit, in the flesh.” He frowned at the state of her. “What are you doing, Moira?”

The disappointment in his tone would have frustrated her, had she not been off her ass.

“I could ask you the same. What brings you to Ireland, commander?” It had been months since she’d seen him. _I’ll be in touch,_ he’d said after his own funeral, and she’d given up hope after the second month.

A scarred lip ticked up, and _his_ irritation was evident. “I’m not your commander anymore.”

“As I’m _well aware_.”

Sighing, he straightened up and adjusted his hood. “Get out of the car.”

She obliged without a fight. He had to steady her against the side of the vehicle before she could fall over onto her face. “Look at you. Have you done _anything_ since—?”

“No,” she whispered, cutting him off. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re _you_ ,” he pointed out. “Stubborn and annoying as shit, but smarter than a fifth grader.”

“I don’t…” she laughed a little, the world tilting in an unpleasant way. “I don’t get that reference, but you're not _wrong_.”

Gabriel brought his hands up, and Moira had a hard time focusing on them. Not just because of her inebriation, either.

“I’m falling apart, Moira.”

Frowning, she took his hands and studied them. They were caught in limbo _—_ evaporating and reforming, unable to keep a constant state. His cells were atrophying at an exuberant rate.

The scientific monster in her brain began to stir as she immediately began to _think_ on it, on _him._ She wanted to rattle off ideas and theories that were brewing but couldn’t find the proper words.   
  
“ _I_ _nteresting_.”

He snatched his hands back, tugging his sleeves down over them. “Interesting? I’m withering away at your feet because of _your bullshit_ and all you can say is fucking _interesting?_ ”

Moira sighed, closing her eyes again. “I shouldn’t even be standing, so yes, interesting is what you get.” She frowned and looked at him again. His face was shifting, and the sight worsened her vertigo. “Really? What do you expect me to do? I don’t have access to a lab. All I’ve got is my notes, and those are absolutely useless without equipment. No one’s been super eager to hire me.”

He shifted his weight in front of her, glancing around in the night. Occasionally patrons would trickle from the club, get into their awaiting rideshare and leave. No one was bothering them in their dark, quiet corner of the parking lot, but he was still on edge.

“I can get you a lab,” he assured, looking back. “I just need you to stop this and get your head back on straight. I can’t keep going like this.”

She made a sour expression. “And why would I do that? I’ll just get _fired_ again.”   
  
“Not this time.”   
  
“How can you be so sure?”   
  
“Because I think that you’re gonna start falling apart, too, if you don't. Either physically or mentally. Hell, _probably both_.”

Sighing heavily, she threw her head back against the car. It had started to drizzle, and she didn’t even give a damn that she didn’t have a jacket. The cold rain was welcome on her warm, numbed skin.

Gabriel had a point. She would begin to fall apart, either this way or that, or perhaps her entire being would split in half and succumb to _both_ ends. What a way to go, destroyed by her brilliant mind in two ways.

“Fine.”

Gabe nodded. “Good. Now, let me take you home, so we can talk this over when you’re not shit faced.”

There was a question that had been burning at the back of her mind for months. One that she didn’t think she could stomach, depending on the answer.

Licking her lips, she had to close her eyes as the world tilted. “Gabe.” It was rare she used the nickname with him, but she could barely keep herself upright, let alone speak in complex sentences. “When… when Zurich happened, was she…? Did she…?”  
  
Gabriel placed a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes this, scanning his expression for a confirmation of the worst.   
  
“After Italy, they offered her your old position.” He tightened his hold as she nearly tilted into him at the implication.

“She declined and went home, Moira. She wasn’t even in the same country.”  
  
With a shuddering breath, she slid down the side of the car until she was sitting. She should be relieved, she shouldn’t feel nauseated. She should be _happy_. The love of her life, the object of her affections, the woman who haunted her was _alive_ .   
  
So why wasn’t she happy?


	8. Anyone Can Use Google

“ _Moi-ra!”_

The woman in question closed her eyes at the melodic, overly-cheerful tone. Her office had been locked, but knowing the other woman’s persistence, it had been futile.

“Olivia,” she tried, her patience thin. “I’m _working_.”

“And I’m _bored,_ boss.” The woman moved into her peripheral. She hopped up onto her desk and Moira shot her a death glare. She pointedly snatched a folder from under her thigh. Sombra didn't seem to mind, instead settling further into the surface. “ _Entertain me_.”

“Are you not perfectly capable of entertaining yourself? Must you insist on pestering the living hell out of me every time you finish whatever show has drawn your attention for the week?” Moira had to force herself to stop hammering away at the keys too hard as she typed. She took a moment to compose herself before continuing to record her findings.

Groaning, Sombra began to busy herself with going through Moira’s belongings. “You know, you’re the only one that even tolerates me. Maybe you should be a bit meaner if you want me to go.”

“I can arrange that, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think you could be mean to me.” Sombra shot her a grin before returning to her search.

Moira’s office was, for the most part, very plain, much like her living space. She didn’t feel the need to decorate— it would only get in the way of her work, and serve as a distraction.

There was, however, one personal item she kept on her desk. It was a photo frame, left face down most of the time as the reminder was too painful to keep facing. It was obscured by a stack of urgent university papers she hadn’t had time to get around to.

Sombra tilted her head, dragging the photo closer upon finding it. “Who’s this?”

It was Moira, alongside another woman. Her hazel eyes were bright and full of life, her grin reaching them. The photo had been clipped to only the two of them— a tanned arm was slung around the unknown woman’s shoulder, the owner out of frame. Moira was looking at the woman rather than the camera, and they both looked _happy_.

The geneticist grabbed the photo and threw it into a drawer before promptly slamming it. “None of your business.” She returned to her computer.

“Everything is my business,” Sombra shrugged, sitting back. She twirled a pen to busy herself as her mind raced a mile a minute.

Moira bit back her irritation. “Only because you make it so,” she muttered, her mood soured.

The hours had ticked by, and it was deep into the night when Sombra returned for another round of harassment. She wasn’t surprised to find Moira still staring at her computer. The only indication she had moved was the barely-touched takeout, undone tie, and open bottle of liquor she’d been picking away at.

“I’m busy,” she snapped.

“Is this you being mean?” Sombra pulled up a spare chair and peeked over her shoulder. Moira exhaled sharply and closed the window she had been working in. “Awe, I was interested. You know I’m good with computers.”

“It’s—” she had to glance at the clock. “—two in the morning, Olivia. Why are you here?”

Her eyes sparkled, and Moira knew she was in for it.

Throwing her hands up, her gloves sparked to life. Several holoscreens were laid out before them, and the images across them touched a wound in Moira that had never healed properly.

Sombra enlarged the screens for her, making sure she had a clear view. “It took me a while to understand you,” she explained. “Gabe? He’s angry and bitter, and it’s no secret at who. You were a little harder, _jefe_.” Sombra swiped through images quickly.

Many of the images were _old_. She’d seen a few of them— photos she knew were hung in a house in Holland. Two different ID badges that, at one point, she had memorized every inch of. Social media photos that hadn’t been updated in many years. _I don’t have time_ , she’d said, once. No, their team had been enough for her.

Moira watched the images fly by, her eyes steeled. “Why are you showing me these?” 

The hacker didn’t stop, unphased. “Because I want to get to know you better, Moira.”

Suddenly, the doctor threw up her scarred hand. “Go back.”

Sombra obliged. She separated the slideshow, and Moira picked a photo from the group. Sombra adjusted it and moved it to the front for her to examine.

It was one she _hadn’t_ seen. It was edited black and white, attached to an article completely in Dutch. Judging by the date, it was _recent,_ within the year.

Familiar rounded glasses were gone, and the small smile she sported didn’t quite reach her eyes.Overall, she looked exhausted. Long, mousy brown hair had been clipped into a short lob that licked up at the tips. _She could never get them to stay down._ The money pieces that framed her face had begun to turn silver.

She was getting older. They both were, Moira loathed to admit.

 _Where were her glasses? She hates contacts._ A small detail, but one she couldn’t forget even if she tried.

Moira tilted her head, studying the photograph for a long, quiet moment. Her eyes flicked to the content of the article.

“Translate this.”

Sombra keyed a few things on the mid-air keyboard, and suddenly the text shifted into English.

 _Utrecht University Researcher Discovers Alzheimer's Breakthrough In Rats_.

“Those poor rats,” Sombra frowned.

Moira stood. She glanced over the photo one last time, adjusting her tie as she did. “I want you to find anything you can. While you’re at it, get me an address.”

Sombra smirked, waving her hand through the screen. It shimmered out of view. “I can get you her whole computer if you ask nicely.”

“ _Just do it.”_

Sighing dramatically, she reclined in the chair. She brought her screen up once more. Moira had no idea what she was doing, but her fingers were flying across the digital keyboard. “Just once, I’d like to hear a _‘oh, thank you Sombra!’._ Would it kill you?”

“I’ll thank you when you find something worth praise,” Moira muttered, leaning over the chair. “This is hardly it. Anyone can perform a Google search.

That got her to swear under her breath. “Not everyone can bring down an entire complex’ security system…”

She began to drag articles aside— many from the university. She’d been working alongside their research program, how interesting… her name did not appear in many articles, but those which it did drew her attention.

“Now _this_ I can work with!” Sombra pushed everything else away, isolating on a single screen. It was a server login for the college. The text indicator blinked, waiting for a username and password. Flexing her fingers, she coaxed the holoscreens closer. “She’s borrowing at least one of their computers. These things are _so easy_ to get into— they have _no_ firewalls.” Sombra chuckled

She paused in her laughter, considering it. Her eyes flicked up to the woman hovering over her shoulder.

“Well?” Moira’s eyes flicked down. “I don’t have all night, Olivia. I _do_ have work to see done.”

Sombra scowled at the use of her given name “ _Eso esta cabrón,”_ she grumbled, fulfilling her demand.

The screen shimmered for a moment with a familiar magenta emblem. Then, it loaded into a desktop page. It was plain, with the university logo on the background. The files were neatly arranged alongside the side of the screen, beside the vertical task bar.

“This is the most boring desktop I have ever—”

“Open that one,” Moira instructed, pointing at a folder labeled with a year. _2066._

Sombra opened the file. It wasn’t until the contents were on display that she realized she already knew what was inside. Notes they’d worked on _together._ As far as she knew, she’d had the only backup drive. When had she...?

Moira stilled, noting an old lab report tucked among the files.

The screen fizzled out and went dark. Sombra blinked, hammering the space bar a few times as her eyebrows set together. “ _Que?_ ”

She tried signing in again, only to get a _server offline_ message. Frustrated, she tried again and _again,_ switching to several different methods. She even tried to reboot the computer remotely.

“Holy _shit_ ,” she breathed. “I don’t know what she did, but I can’t get it back online.”

Moira sat back, smoothing her tie down again. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not!” She lamented. “I want to know what was on there! I _need—_ “

“It’s _fine_ ,” Moira told her sternly. “Just find me an address.” She turned on her heel and began to leave the hacker to her work.

Sombra turned her head slightly as her footsteps stopped in the doorway.

“Olivia?”

She poked a screen aside to peer at her, raising an eyebrow.

“...Thank you.”

The glow of the computer was the only light in her office. She’d abandoned it in favor of getting _something_ into her body after many hours of working without reprieve.

She frowned at the bottle of coconut rum in her hand. She was contemplating adding it to an awaiting can of sparkling water. After all, she preferred her water to hurt.

The liquor was a split second away from being tipped into the can when she was startled. The blue light rippled to purple, drawing her attention. Her eyes scanned the screen as the cursor began to move.

“No,” She mumbled, the chanted word quickly rising in pitch and frequency. “No!”

Overwatch had finally caught up to her. At least, that’s where her mind went first. It was only seconds after the initial panic that she remembered that Overwatch was _gone._

Then who the hell was in her computer?

She shook the mouse, but found she’d lost control of it. The cursor trailed over to a folder she’d stolen a long, long time ago, and the paranoia rose once more.

Frenzied, she looked around the room for something, _anything_ to help her. Her eyes stilled on her drink for a long moment before flicking to the computer tower.

The hardware sizzled and popped as it was coated in grapefruit flavored sparkling water. The system shuddered, seized, and then fell silent.


	9. Sleepover

_Would you like to come over?_

Three ellipses popped up next to Olivia’s contact photo. Normally, she would reply back within seconds. Yet, it took her nearly a minute to respond.

_Sorry boss, have plans :( tmrw?_

Moira sighed heavily. The phone was nearly thrown across the room before she thought better. Of course, leave it to Olivia to be busy on the _one evening_ she extended an invite.

What had she expected? That the younger woman would be her _friend?_ She didn’t have friends— the closest she’d had was Gabriel, and he had become as distant as she had.

 _Your own fault, really,_ she reminded herself. 

Moira glanced through her contacts. They were mostly work related. The secretary for the University, several professors, and the other ministers.

Her thumb hesitated over Lacroix’s icon. She snorted at the thought of calling her. _Yes, I played a part in turning you into a ruthless killing machine. Would you like to come over and drink the pain away with me?_ Even in the short lived daydream, she could see herself earning a bullet between the eyes.

Akande would be the same. He was likely busy, and it was futile to try and contact him for any non-Talon business. Baptiste was too sweet of a man to earn her company. Same with Siebren.

Frowning, she looked over her last potential contact. It was no use calling. If she even answered, all she would do is throw a line of swears at her before hanging up. Then, she’d call and do it again until she felt satisfied.

It was an egregiously _bad_ idea, Moira knew as much.

Who else did she have to turn to?

It took her several minutes to work up the courage to knock. As she did, she could hear a crash followed by laughter behind the door.

That wasn’t right.

The door was ripped open, and she was surprised to find Olivia standing before her. _Half dressed._

The woman hid partially behind the door. “Oh. I thought you were take out.”

“I thought you had _plans_.”

“I do, and you’re looking at them.”

Moira frowned, studying her. “Is there a reason you’re half naked in Clover’s apartment?” She glanced behind her, trying to see into the apartment. She could hear hushed music playing from within.

“I was _invited._ Is there a reason _you’re_ here?” she countered.

She opened her mouth, and then promptly closed it. She couldn’t very well go around saying she was _lonely,_ could she? “I’m here for Clover. I intended to speak with her— About… ah, her work. I have a few questions.”

Sombra eyed her up and down. Sighing heavily, she walked away, leaving the door wide open. “She’s in the shower and a _little_ drunk. I hope you know she’s not gonna be happy to see that you’re here, _jefe._ ”

“I expected as much,” She muttered, frowning as she stepped over the threshold. She took in her appearance once again and her expression twisted against her own volition. “Did you two—?”

Sombra barked out a laugh. “You think we _fucked?_ ”

Moira’s face turned red. “I would have worded it different, but yes.

“No,” Sombra laughed, bringing a hand up. “She’s cute, but no, boss. I couldn’t do that to you. Or Widow.”

She was gearing up for a sharp response when movement in her peripheral drew her gaze. Gabe and Amélie were sitting on the couch stock still, having hoped to not gather her attention. They were in various states of dress as well. Pajamas, she realized, as she took in an array of snacks, alcohol, and blankets laid out before them. 

_An entire room of people with reason to hate me, how on brand._

She closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “She’s hosting a _sleepover_?”

“Yes, and you _weren’t_ invited.”

She looked up, watching as the host exited her bedroom, scrunching her short hair with a towel. “Is there a reason you’re in my apartment? You shouldn’t even know where I live.”

“It’s in your file,” Moira shoved her hands into her pockets. “I was… going to talk about your work with you.” She was purely bullshitting, too deep in the lie to backpedal. “I’d developed some theories regarding it’s effects on your myopia, and—“

“If you want to talk work with me,” Clover glared, “you’ll do it during work hours. Now leave.”

Sombra threw an arm up, pulling Moira down. She scowled at the intrusion, but the other woman spoke before she could scold her. “Awe, come on, Clover, let her stay! You can behave yourself, right, Moira? We’re watching Jurassic Park!”

“I hate that movie,” Moira scowled.

Clover studied her, one eyebrow arched. “I know. Hmm, something else to torture you with…” She sighed, discarding the towel. Her eyes flicked up and down Moira’s tall form. “ _Fine._ You can stay… _for the movie_. If you want, I mean.”

She’d rather leave, she thought. It had been a mistake showing up. She wasn’t welcome, and knew better.

Yet, she would do anything to be in close proximity to her.

Moira appeared uncomfortable with the way Olivia was sleeping on her. She sat stiffly, as though any movement may disturb the woman.

Fingers trailed over her shoulder, drawing her attention from the poor excuse of a movie they’d put on. They’d worked their way through both the first and second movies in the series, and the group was more or less asleep halfway through the third. She looked back, catching Clover’s eyes.  
  
The woman raised a hand to her lips and then motioned for her to follow. Moira regarded her curiously. She began to head for her bedroom, glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. Moira’s heart leapt into her throat at the implication in her gaze.

Sombra shifted as she stood, nearly falling into Gabriel. Moira quickly laid her back the _other_ way against Amélie, lest she wake the man and send him into a bad mood. After a brief moment of hesitation, she adjusted the blanket over her sleeping form before stepping over her legs.

Glancing back, she caught Gabriel’s eyes, focused on her. He snorted silently and closed his eyes once more.

When she entered the bedroom, she found herself being grabbed and _pulled_. She withheld a startled yelp as Clover pushed her onto the mattress.

She was on her in an instant, and Moira was too confused to fight back. Hell, she didn’t _want_ to. She found she quite enjoyed the way their teeth and tongues met in a fevered, rushed kiss. When they’d been in Blackwatch, they’d been more passionate and languid. This kiss, however, was sloppy and _desperate._

She moaned into Moira’s mouth and she was jarred back to reality. Clover would have lit her on fire if given the chance, _so_ _why_ _was she kissing her—?_

Clover breathed against her lips. Her fingers entwined into Moira’s hair, not pulling. Exploring. “This is a bad idea.”

“Very bad,” Moira murmured in agreement, drawing her hands along her thighs. Tugging, she pulled her to properly straddle her hips.

She swallowed, eyes slipping closed. “They’ll hear.”

 _Ah._ That’s why she was kissing her. She was _needy._

“You know I can be quiet.” Moira couldn’t help but to smirk, remembering their old romps. “I’m afraid you’re the one who can’t keep your composure, though.”

Clover sighed, head tilting back. “I’m drunk.”

“You said that three hours and two movies ago, and have had nothing but water since.” Moira’s lips ghosted her jaw. “I know as well as you do that what we’ve injected ourselves with has changed our metabolisms.”

“I hate when you’re right,” Clover grumbled.

Moira’s eyes glinted as she looked up. “If you want me to leave, all you have to say is no. Though… you’re the one who brought me in here.”

She wouldn’t meet her gaze, instead opting to stare up at the ceiling. “I know. I shouldn’t want you, but I do.”

Moira squeezed her hips. “Then tell me what you want me to do.”

Falling back, defeated, Clover sighed. Her eyes shifted as she followed each imperfection in the plaster. “Just…”

Moira half turned onto her side, eyebrows raised as she awaited her answer. Her eyes slipped closed, and her words came out as nothing more than a whisper.

“Just… hold me?”

Her mismatched eyes soften at the request. Without speaking, she opened her arms in a welcoming gesture. Clover immediately rolled and pressed her face into her shoulder, arms entwined around her. Moira did the same, drawing her close. Her fingers trailed up and down her back as they laid together.

They stayed like that, until Clover’s sniffling subsided and they both fell asleep, resting better than either had been able.


	10. Ribbons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW; self harm and self hatred

Moira’s fingers danced over her various instruments, searching for one in particular on autopilot.

When finding it, her hand came down on it wrong and jarred her from her work. She didn’t cry out in pain, or hiss or wince, but instead stopped to look at the blood the scalpel had drawn.  
  


Her mother had grabbed her wrists hard enough to bruise, and Moira had grit her teeth at the fresh pain.

“This isn’t _cute_ if you think it is, Moira,” she hissed, tightening her hold. “Do not let me catch you doing this again.”

“ _Yes ma’am_ ,” she grumbled, bitterly.

She didn’t catch her again, no. But she didn’t go swimming that summer. Or the one after.

She learned quickly after that incident. How to pry the blades from the cheap, plastic disposable razors with scissors. How to wrap them so she wouldn’t shred her fingers. Where to hide them where her mother would never find.

Nobody knew again until she got the football captain’s girlfriend down to her underwear in her own bedroom.

It felt like a zing of approval each time she moaned, each time she dug her nails into Moira’s back for support. She felt prideful at the way she could make such a wanted young woman beg for _her_. She could practically imagine the look on the other student’s faces if they only knew their admired and popular cult leader was weak in the knees for the _freak_.

Her own clothes had been discarded, scattered around her room in their haste. It wasn’t to her liking— overly bright, painfully bland in the way only people with no personality to them can manage. Everything was synchronized in pinks and golds.

 _Disgusting_.

She tensed up as her hand met her thigh too hard, and was drawn from her background thoughts. Moira exhaled shakily against her throat as the bruising pain began to fade.

Those delicate fingers traced her wounds— some old and paler than her, some more recent and still threatening to split open if she even so much as looked at them wrong.

“Moira…?”

The bed creaked as she rolled off of it. She hastily pulled her uniform slacks back on, fastening the button and straightening herself out. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t… seem like fine…?”

The poor girl. She was dense, Moira knew as much after watching through several years of schooling, but she sounded so deeply confused in those five words. _How could anyone do this to themselves_? she was probably wondering. _How unsightly._

How lucky she was to never feel the way Moira had. To resent herself so much the only outlet for the pain was _more_. 

Moira shot her a cold smile, dragging on her polo. “Mind your own business next time, alright? A pretty girl like yourself, you’ll get far in life if you do.”

“Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she spat over her shoulder as she left her bedroom.

Using the tip of her nail, Moira whisked the droplet away. She’d only nicked herself. Hardly deep enough for a plaster, and her regenerative nature would heal the wound in no time without a trace.

She wiped the droplet onto her thigh and set back to work, the mark a familiar thin, red ribbon on her slacks.


	11. I Don’t Need You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, and then tears, and then implied smut

Clover gasped, her back arching and her fists jerking at her restraints. “ _Jesus Christ—“_

Moira flicked her eyes up. She raised both of her eyebrows, waiting for the woman to concede.

Clover grit her teeth, shaking her head. “Fuck you.”

Sighing, Moira switched the vibrator off… _again._ “ _Really_ , darling. You can come whenever you’d like.”

Clover relaxed as best as she could, her body trembling from being on the edge for so long. They had been at it for an hour. She’d allowed Moira to tie her to the bed posts, something that even just six months ago she would have killed her for even _thinking about_. Things had become a touch easier between them, and they were shifting back to how they had been _before_ , but Clover would still find herself in the ground before she _begged Moira for a damn thing._

“Poor baby,” she muttered, trying to steady her breath. “Hurts you more than it hurts me, huh?”

Moira’s lips curled into a cruel smile. She switched the toy back on, and Clover couldn’t stop the sharp gasp it forced out of her. “This is absolutely _painful_ , darling.”

She found herself forcibly dragged towards the edge of the abyss each time she turned the wand back on. “I’m not gonna beg for you,” she panted. A small shift in the position of the toy caused her to tilt her knees in and her toes to curl. A weak moan fell from her lips. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see O’Deorain’s smug expression.

When Moira decided she was shaking too much, she’d turn it off again. “That was the deal, bunny,” she reminded. “I’m not letting you finish until I at _least_ hear a ‘ _please’._ ”

Discarding the toy, she pushed Clover’s knees apart once more. She drew her thumb through Clover’s slick folds, watching with keen interest how the light caught on her arousal.

She leaned forward, and— _oh,_ for fucks sake, she was using her mouth again.

Her silvertongue had _many_ uses, and even through six years of raw, bitter hatred, Clover hadn’t been able to shake it from her mind.

“I hate you,” Clover gasped as she began to suckle on her clitoris.

Moira rested her cheek against the inside of her thigh. “You said you tolerated me yesterday.”

“I hate you today,” she doubled down.

When Moira returned to tasting her, Clover clamped her thighs around her pink ears. “Fuck, _nope_ —”

“Which is it?” Moira murmured, leaving slow kisses down the length of her. Clover could feel her teeth graze across the soft flesh at the top of her inner thigh. “Tolerate or hate me?”

“Let me cum and I’ll tell you.”

“Say _please,_ bunny.”

Clover tossed her head back, hair splayed across Moira's silk sheets. “I told you— you’re not gonna break me.”

_Not again. Not ever._

“My intent is not to harm,” she glanced up at her. “I’m here for _you,_ darling. Let me give you everything.”

Clover felt two of her fingers begin to slide into her, and she almost closed her eyes again. No— she kept them open, glaring at the woman between her thighs.

For many years, she’d refused to cry. She’d stopped allowing herself the reprieve, seeing it only as a weakness. She’d steeled to avoid any more unwanted heartache. A preventative measure in keeping her confidence unwavering. A mantra, to keep herself _strong_ for when she finally faced the woman who’d hurt her deeper than she’d felt before.

When the dam broke, they didn’t come all at once like she’d expected. She narrowed her eyes as they threatened to break free, and closed them as a single drop slipped from her waterline. More followed in suit until they began to flow silently. They pooled uncomfortably in her ears before sliding to the silk bed sheets. 

“I don’t need you, Moira,” she whispered. “ _I don’t_.”

The woman shifted, climbing over her. “No, _mo grá,_ you don’t.” Moira placed a hand to her cheek, beginning to thumb her tears away. “You’re a capable woman, with such determination. You don’t need anyone.”

Clover squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment in a futile attempt to compose herself. She only succeeded in helping more tears fall loose. She couldn’t wrap her head or her heart around her emotions. There was something blocking them, preventing her from untangling the knot that had settled within her.

“Then why do I want you so bad?” She breathed, slowly glancing up to her. “Why do I still want you after all this time? Why don’t I hate you?”

Moira didn’t break their gaze. “I don’t know, darling,” she whispered. “You have me. I’m not going anywhere, ever again.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Those slender fingers slid between them. Clover’s breath hitched as they slid home, beginning to work her towards the brink once again. “Tell me what you need from me,” Moira coaxed, voice gentle. “Tell me what I can give you.”

Clover tugged at her restraints again. She wanted to hold her, to drape her arms around lean shoulders and _drag_ her down along side her. More than anything, she wanted to tip over into oblivion with the woman she hated to _love._

“Please,” she finally whispered, the word barely audible, more tears joining their brethren on the bed. “Moira… _please._ ”

Moira’s expression softened. “Of course, anything you ask of me, my love. How would you like to finish?”

Clover tilted her head back with a deep groan, throat displayed. “You know how _hot_ it makes me when you fuck me with the strap…”

Moira chuckled. Leaning forward, she began to nip and sickle at her throat. “That takes time to put on, bunny. Are you sure you can wait?”

Clover’s legs twitched as Moira stopped touching her, slick fingers instead resting on her thigh.“Yeah,” she nodded, breathless. “I’ve waited five years, what's five minutes?”

The older geneticist nearly purred. “I can make it _three_. Wait here.”

Clover jerked as Moira climbed off of her, her bruised wrists entangled in silk. “Do I have a choice?”


End file.
